Irene Holmes : Sherlock's Daughter
by FallonOHara
Summary: Irene Holmes is the daughter of the legendary Sherlock Holmes, who died when she was four. Assigned to her first case without Watson, she and his son Sherlock investigate a series of horse-nappings, where everything may not be as it seems.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

I snapped close my cracked, old steamer trunk with a satisfied sigh.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Irene?" Mr. Watson asked from the foyer, nervousness in his voice. Mr. Watson had been a friend of father's for as long as I could remember, and I think he still thinks of me as a five-year-old girl with her hair still in braids.

"Watson, I'm sure. I'm fifteen. I can handle my own case. I have told you this before." I sighed at the old man, he meant well, but he was far too overprotective.

"John, she'll be fine. She's too much like her father to get hurt on a case." Watson's wife, Mary, assured Watson, and he frowned deeper.

"That's exactly why I'm worried about her – she's too much like her father."

My father.  
I've been told he was great, an extraordinary man, a genius, but I didn't have a chance to find out these things for myself, since the great Sherlock Holmes died when I was four, leaving me to live with his closest companion, Watson, as my mother had abandoned me with my father when I was born.

Despite how Watson acted sometimes, I knew he held my father in high regard, and meant it as a compliment when he claimed I was way too much like him.

"It's not like it's a murder, Watson. It's a horse-napping. It's entirely dull. I'm sure I'll solve it almost immediately." I reminded him, still quite bored with the details of the case.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I accompany you?" Watson fretted, wringing his hands.

"We can handle it, father." Sherlock assured him, his blonde hair falling into his stormy eyes.

I looked over at him.

Sherlock Watson is a skinny boy with his father's blonde hair. He was named after my father, and is only a year and a half older than me, so we've had a bond since I was born, and he's going to be the only one accompanying me on this case.

He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder carelessly, and I looked down at my steamer trunk with a bit of a blush in my cheeks. Compared to Sherlock, I really didn't travel lightly. In my defense, we would probably be there for a while.

"I can carry that for you, Rene." Sherlock offered, picking up my trunk easily, with one hand. Despite his skinny frame, he was more than capable of carrying my heavy trunk like that.

"Send me a telegram if an- or, scratch that, return on the nearest train and come knocking if anything at all goes wrong." Watson said, still fretting over us.

"I promise I'll get Irene back safely. Unless she's too annoying on the train." Sherlock said, his eyes darting over to mine for a second as he said this, giving me enough time to stick my tongue out at him and him to raise his eyebrows.

"Sherlock, I'm trusting you to take care of you both. Irene can be... headstrong. Even so, I'm trusting you to persuade her out of her bad ideas." Watson told Sherlock as he dropped us off at the train station.

"I know, father. I promised I would bring her back." Sherlock replied, and I could tell he was having trouble containing a sigh at his father's behavior. Sherlock was a mischievous, independent boy, and to have a father like Watson upset him greatly.

Watson began to say something else, but then excused himself to dab at his eyes with his hankercheif, so we used that opportunity to get onto the train.

Once we were seated, Sherlock looked at me with sparks of excitement in his eyes.

"I brought a draughts board." He whispered, pulling it out of his bag.

Of course Sherlock packed a draughts board.

As the train began to puff smoke into the smoggy London sky, I met his eyes with mine, and grinned as we set up the board and I said,

"The game is on, Watson"


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"We're here." Someone is poking my head, and I instinctively growl and go to bite their finger off before I open my eyes and see Sherlock.

"Oh. It's you." I frowned.

"Love the enthusiasm, dear Rene." He said, putting a hand over his heart as if wounded, before grabbing my steamer trunk and exiting the train car, leaving me in a rush to clear my face of the drool that inevitably leaks out when I sleep, even only for short naps.

I follow Sherlock, cursing at him under my breath, for the half-mile it is to the client's home.

When the client answers the door, they wrinkle their nose.

"Charles, there are some sweaty orphans out here!" She cries in a shrill voice, and we hear footsteps thumping down stairs.

"Francine, what is it?" A portly man cries, waddling to the door.

"They're orphans, smelly street rats, in the country!" She wailed, and Charles examined us.

"We're Sherlock Watson, and Irene Holmes." Sherlock introduced us, "We're here on your request to investigate the disappearance of some horses that you believe were kidnapped." He did the explaining, since I could only gawk at the man and who I percieved to be his wife.

I wonder if his wife knew he was sleeping with someone else. It was possible. She seemed like the kind of woman who was also sleeping with someone else.

I looked past them, around their house.

It was clear they were wealthy, Charles was a wealthy farmer, he had inherited a large farm and the large house that came with it when his father died, according to Watson, and it was clear Francine loved using that wealth, judging from the fine china the maid was setting the table with, and the necklace looped around Francine's neck.

"But you're just children!" Charles sputtered, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I'm almost eighteen, and this lady is almost sixteen, we're not children, sir." Sherlock assured him.

"You said your surname was Holmes, miss?" The man asked, even though Sherlock had been the one to say that.

I nodded.

"Any relation to the great Sherlock?" He asked, and I retained a sigh. He had been the one to mail Watson, he must know that someone with the last name Holmes would be related to Sherlock.

"He was her father, sir." Sherlock replied.

"Ah, he was a great man. He helped my father with a bit of a problem he had concerning a giant rat of Sumatra, pesky little critter." The man said, trailing off, seemingly lost in memory lane until Sherlock cleared his throat.

"You two can stay upstairs, we have plenty of guest bedrooms." Charles offered, and his wife shot him a dirty look, but moved back so we could walk into the house.

The floors were carpeted with velvet, a rich, clean velvet that my shoes sunk into as we walked towards the staircase Francine led us to, and then followed her up to our rooms, which were across the hall from each other.

"Wash up. Dinner is served at six sharp. It is now a quarter until six." Francine said, and then began to walk downstairs, turning to call to us a final, "don't be late!"

As I washed up, I looked around the room.

It was a dusty room, but the dust didn't impair the richness of all the furniture at all. I could tell that no expense had been spared, even just in this one of several guest rooms.

"Rene, are you decent?" Sherlock rapped on the door, saying the same thing he had been taught to say when I moved in with him, in case he ever, God forbid, almost walked in on me unclothed.

"Yes." I replied, and he walked in.

He had washed up and his face was still wet, he always claimed he never had time to dry it, and I smiled at his familiar face in this unfamiliar house and tousled his hair, even though I knew he hated it, which made him grimace.

"It's 5:58 already, you girl. I've already unpacked and have been studying my case notes, and you've spent all this time freshening up?" He asked, raising a blonde eyebrow, and I scowled at him.

"What do you say about doing some snooping tonight?" I whispered to him, my scowl fading and eyes brightening at the prospect.

He gave me a wary look.

"Why would we need to snoop, Irene Mary Holmes?" He asked, pulling out my full name. I scowled again.

"To find out Mr. Masterson's enemies, and things of that nature. So we can know anyone who could possibly want to abduct his horses." I explained, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Or we could just ask the man at dinner." He suggested, and I sighed.

"Fine, if you want to be boring." I muttered, as the clock struck 6.

Everyone was silent at dinner. Francine took the opportunity to scowl voraciously at me and Sherlock every time her husband wasn't looking at her. I absolutely hated the woman by the time I had taken three bites of the dish the cook had made.

After a long bout of silence, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Sir, we were curious if you or your wife had any enemies, people who may wish to do you harm?" He asked.

"How dare you suggest that! We are upstanding members of the community. We go to church every Sunday!" Francine cried, standing up from her chair, like we had just suggested that they were murderers.

"We just wanted to know for the purpose of our investigati-" Sherlock began, but Francine cut him off.

"Be quiet, you insolent street rat! I already said we are upstanding members of the community. The conversation is over, Charles." Francine sat back down abruptly, and Sherlock gritted his teeth, giving me a look. I knew him well enough that I could translate the look as 'what is wrong with this evil woman? I am no street rat. I am the son of a Doctor.' He raised his chin as he gave me this look, and then looked at Francine.

"If you obstruct our investigation, then it is highly possible we will not be able to solve this crime, sir and madam. Please come to us if you think of anyone, sir. Please excuse us." Sherlock stood up, and, after hastily cramming the last few delicious bites into my mouth, I ran after him, wiping the sauce that dribbled onto my chin with the back of my hand, causing him to give me another look.

As the old grandfather clock at the end of the hallway chimed that it was midnight I threw off the big, heavy comforters and tiptoed across the hardwood floors, opening the door and crossing the hallway.

I took a second to straighten my nightgown and fix my hair before opening his door, and when I opened it I saw luminous eyes in the dark staring at me, startling me, and I almost yelled but then I remembered I was the one walking into Sherlock's room.

"Oh. Hello." I said, my shoulders relaxing.

"Ready to go breaking into an office?" He whispered, and I grinned and nodded. Sherlock smiled crookedly at me, then grabbed my hand and we tiptoed down to the study.


End file.
